


Happy New Year, John

by sherlockisdatingjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Happy Ending, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, John and Sherlock have a fight, Love Confession, M/M, Mild Angst, New Year's Eve, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Reichenbach Doesn't Exist Because It's Too Darn Sad, Sherlock and Irene Support Each Other's Gay Antics, Someone Hits On John, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-28 23:12:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockisdatingjohn/pseuds/sherlockisdatingjohn
Summary: New Year's Eve causes some unpleasant flashbacks for John, his misplaced jealousy driving him to pick a fight with Sherlock. John storms off, Sherlock worriedly plays the violin. When Sherlock finally goes after him, his attempt at reconciliation quickly turns into a love confession.--“Like I said, girlfriends...not really my area.” Sherlock's voice was low, his words lined with deeper meaning.“What is your area then?”





	Happy New Year, John

      11:59 PM, the harsh, angular numbers on the digital clock read. If it wasn’t for the frequent booming sounds of fireworks or the distant thumping of a loud party, Sherlock never would have known that it was New Year’s Eve. Maybe if John had been there to remind him of the celebrations the general population took part in, they would be sitting outside, staring up at the colorful displays set off by neighbors with the scent of gunpowder burning their noses. Or they would be inside, each with a glass of bourbon in their hand, discussing how disgustingly mundane and predictable the people of London were (which was the more likely scenario). But, John wasn’t there, so Sherlock was left to fend for himself, playing his violin aggressively. He told himself he was playing with such fervor to drown out the annoying noise of partying Londoners, but it was truly because the anxiety left over from his fight with John was making him irritable and fidgety. 

      After playing one too many notes incorrectly, he tossed his instrument into his chair haphazardly and let out a warm puff of air. Without something to focus on, his thoughts drifted off to John, who was probably sitting in the bar a few streets over. That run-down place was where he always stormed off to after a fight, although he usually returned within an hour or two. The image of John drunkenly kissing some random woman when the clock changes to 12:00 AM flung itself into the forefront of Sherlock’s mind and made him wince immediately. He shook his head, trying to free himself from his horrid imagination.

     12:01 AM, the clock now read. John had been gone since 8 PM, a short while after he had confronted Sherlock about something he could no longer remember. After multiple _Are you okay?_ , _Where are you?_ , and one _Come home_  texts went unanswered, Sherlock decided it was time to go searching for him. After quickly slipping into his coat and scarf, he walked briskly out the door of 221B and down the street. He glanced around him as he progressed down the sidewalk, looking for any sign of the short, muscular form he was so incredibly grateful to call his friend. His eyes caught a man stumbling along the side of the road, and from a distance, his frantic mind believed it was John. Just as relief began to run through his veins he realized upon closer inspection that this man was not John, he was too slow, too ugly, too tall. Even when inebriated, John never acted so oafishly, like his body was too heavy for his legs to carry. He had always appreciated that about John, how he could carry himself so pridefully, chest puffed and chin up. It was one of the first things he had noticed, apart from how distractingly attractive he was. Sherlock was well aware of the danger of letting himself think of John that way, especially after years of Mycroft's incessant warnings against sentiment, but he could never seem to stop himself. 

     His pounding footsteps echo in the alley as he continues his search. He ducks behind every dumpster, paranoia painting a gruesome picture of John’s limp and beaten body lying sprawled out on the cold concrete in his mind. He’s fine, he’s at the bar. His phone must be on silent. He’s at the bar and he’s fine. Sherlock tries to rationalize the situation in his mind and yet it does nothing to alleviate his worry. It is times like this where he almost wished he was like he used to be. Cold, aloof, isolated. But this would mean that he would never have met John and there was nothing in this world that would ever make him want that. He rounds the last corner until he is finally facing the front of the bar. The heavy wooden door swings closed behind him as he enters, his eyes swiftly scanning the room.

      Ahhh, there he is. Sherlock sighs contently, his gaze landing on John quietly sitting on the last stool at the bar. He hadn't been drinking, Sherlock observed, just thinking. Sherlock watches as the bartender approaches John, hands him a small glass of what looked to be whiskey, and then points to the back of the room. Sherlock follows his finger to a tall, surly man sitting alone. He watches the man send John a wink and then stand abruptly, making his chair squeak across the floor. He walks over to the bar, a high ego and mild intoxication causing him to have an obnoxious swagger in his step. His hand fell to the counter, holding up the man’s weight as he leans over John. Sherlock can read John’s discomfort in the lines on his faces as he reacts to whatever, most likely vulgar, things the man is whispering in his ear. Intense jealousy and anger settle into Sherlock’s stomach and propel him forward, causing him to almost jog over to the pair. John jumps as Sherlock's hip makes contact with the bar, his elbow supporting him as he tries to disguise his true feelings with a suave, calm pose. John’s swirling blue eyes meet his, left-over anger, confusion, and relief all blending into one emotion. He attempts to quirk the side of his mouth into a comforting smile and then clears his throat to gain the attention of the third man. He looks up slowly, his eyebrows creased in irritation. “You need a lozenge, or somethin’?” his gruff voice croaks. Sherlock chuckled quietly. “No, sir. But I appreciate the concern.” he bites back sarcastically.

“You got a problem?”

“Not at all. But I’m afraid the man you are attempting to seduce might.”

John shoots Sherlock a sharp look, obviously questioning his motive.

“What? He your boyfriend or something? He was here all lonesome, I was just trying to keep him company.” the man replies smoothly.

“Well, I’m afraid it’s unwanted here.”

“How 'bout you let the man speak for himself, huh pretty boy?”

“Hey, now.” John butts in defensively. “Let’s all be adults, huh?”

Sherlock charges forward anyways, the rush of blood in his ears drowning out John’s agitated advice. “I would recommend you walk away. Now.”

“Hey asshole, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, don’t I? You work at a moving service, a cab driver on the weekends. Probably an alcoholic.” Sherlock squints his eyes in observation. “Scratch that, _definitely_ an alcoholic. You’ve been married for at least 10 long years. You don’t love her but you can’t leave her. A child. A daughter _._ You suppress the urge to yell and shout at home. A long repressed sexuality and a cookie cutter lifestyle tends to cause quite the pent-up aggravation, doesn’t it? So instead, you come here. Drink it all away and hit on unsuspecting men, like poor John here. Obviously, they all turn you away as a drunkard who is unaware of personal boundaries is appealing to absolutely no one. This does nothing but exacerbate your frustration, sending you back home worse than before. Dreadful cycle, isn’t it? Also” his lips curled into a sly grin “you're a regular sufferer of insomnia. Either that or you’re kept up all night by your own rancid breath.”

     John couldn’t help but let out a high pitched giggle at that last part, quickly suppressing it by clamping a hand over his mouth. Sherlock smirked, pleased with his assessment of the rude stranger (and that he had made John laugh).The man’s mouth dropped open in shock, but then quickly contorted into an indignant scowl. He stepped towards Sherlock, destroying his pristine and neat appearance by taking a handful of his expensive shirt and jacket.

“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are-”

Sherlock snorted, frustrating the man with his lack of intimidation. “How did this work out for you last time? I wouldn’t test me.”

      The man growled, a pathetic attempt at re-asserting his dominance of the altercation. “Walk. Away. You don't know who you're dealing with.” Sherlock said tauntingly, parroting the man's words from moments ago. He huffed out a breath of frustration and finality, pushing Sherlock away as he released his shirt collar. The stranger grabbed John's shoulder before he walked away, giving it an uncomfortable and invasive squeeze. Sherlock stood awkwardly next to John, trying to deduce his emotions from the set of his shoulders, the angle of his posture. He knew John well enough to notice even the smallest things about him like when he had just finished a blog post or had stubbed his toe before entering the room. He looked tired, his slumped shoulders telling a story of exhaustion and slight irritation. Sherlock decided it was safe enough to go in, and noiselessly took a seat next to John.

“Thank you. That man was giving me the creeps.” John mumbled after long a tension-filled silence.

“Anytime.”

      A few more moments of quiet pass between them, both looking at the wooden counter to avoid each other's eyes. “I'm sorry.” Sherlock eventually says softly, his face filled with a rare moment of guilt and sincerity. He wish he could piece together why they had been fighting so excessively recently, but while he could read John like a page from a book, their actual relationship had always been inscrutable to him. Whenever John gets a date, which is now an increasingly rare occasion, it escalates into a yelling match. Every time Sherlock even mentions “The Woman”, it ends up with John pouting into a glass of bourbon and Sherlock pacing in his room. Mrs. Hudson is constantly teasing them over their “lover's quarrels” and it always makes John consciously evade Sherlock's gaze.

     “Yeah, I know” John finally responded, rubbing his palm over his face. Sherlock opens his mouth to reply but clicked it shut upon realizing he had no idea what to say. He always knew what to say, always had a snide remark waiting on the tip of his tongue, ready to tear through his lips and verbally eviscerate his next unlucky victim. He still wasn't used to how John's mere presence could suck the words from his throat, leaving him gaping like a fish and wide-eyed like a child in a toy shop.

      “Happy New Year, John” he tried, striving to eradicate the dreadful hostility in the air. John glanced up for a second, bothered by the echo of the last time Sherlock had said those exact words during the Adler case. He made tentative eye contact, the hesitance and awkwardness of that memory playing out in the groves of his face. Sherlock picked up on it instantly, noticing the abrupt downturn of John's lips, the slight furrow between his brows. His mind drew the line between his particular word choice and that moment from exactly a year ago. He recalled John looking at the ground, reluctantly asking _“How are we feeling about that?”_ in reference to Irene's sudden resurrection and how he had left the unanswered question dangling in the air. 

  Sherlock cleared his throat, his heart throbbing with everything he has always wanted to say to John, the war between love and logic tearing him apart. His mouth began to move before he declared one side the victor. 

“I don't love her, you know. Never did.”

John froze, his eyelids dropping in embarrassment? Shame? Pain?

Sherlock pressed on. “She was a challenge, a clever mind, a...distraction. Nothing more.”

       John dropped his head to his hands and let out the loud breath he had been holding in. It looked like he was relieved. Sherlock fiddled with his fingers in his lap, his foot tapping anxiously against the stool. He knew he was right, knew this was what had been bothering John, the ignition to the spark of anger that sent him running from their flat. _You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?_ John's voice boomed in his head. The anniversary of Irene's frankly overdramatic return from the dead had undeniably caused some of John's rather unpleasant feelings towards her to resurface. 

The silence between them stretched even further, John's lips pursed in thought, Sherlock's open in indecision.

“Like I said, girlfriends...not really my area.” Sherlock's voice was low, his words lined with deeper meaning. 

      “What is your area then?” John's response was quick, his voice clipped and laced with uncertainty. Sherlock had not anticipated that question, had not already formulated an answer adequate enough to satisfy John's curiosity and vague enough to keep his own feelings hidden. His eyes blinked rapidly, the force that once pushed him to console John, to finally explain himself, braking violently. Sherlock's gaze drifted to meet John's, his attention drawn to him like a magnet. John's expression softened drastically, the sharp edge of his exasperation melting away and Sherlock knew he had let him see too much. He had let too much emotion invade his eyes, too much tenderness and vulnerability show on his face. One didn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to see it, the desperate yearning, the unconditional love.

      Sherlock practically leapt to his feet, his coat flying behind him theatrically in his frenzy to get away. He heard John call his name behind him, quickly thank the bartender, and then his hurried footsteps following him. Sherlock was much faster, his long legs carrying him gracefully through the New Year's crowd. He needed to hide, needed to disappear. He was not ready to say it, not ready for the crushing rejection that was sure to ensue his confession. He kept moving, bumping shoulders with many party-goers at varying levels of drunkenness. His hectic mind tried to latch on to the details of their lives, tried to read their pasts in their wrinkles, their thoughts in their smiles but he couldn't. He would love something to divert his thoughts from John, to dull the waves of panic and uneasiness, but his mind was simply out of control. His heart was defying orders, pounding in his chest when he urged it to calm. Sherlock had always been in command of his body, always been able to at least repress emotion when needed but now he felt like he was going mad. 

      A warm hand traps his wrist, jerking him out of his self-reflection. Sherlock turned to face his captor, the strong arm giving way to John's gentle face. “Sherlock, stop.” There was no malice in his tone, nothing to reflect the angered, even disgusted John that Sherlock had feared. “It- it doesn't matter. Drop it, John.” Sherlock was too humiliated to meet his eyes. “It absolutely does. Please, just answer my question. I need to know.” John's words were a mild command, his military background as obvious as the day they first met. Sherlock's breath fluttered, he could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, very aware of John's hand still on his arm. After his eyes darted around his surroundings he realized where they were. His legs had brought him back to 221B while his thoughts ran in every direction. He was only a few steps away from the door, just a few feet from the would be sanctuary. John was smart, had realized once Sherlock got home and locked himself in his room, it was over. He could still pull away, he doubted John would try to stop him again. He could avoid this, pretend like he wasn't helplessly besotted with his best friend, but the rawness in John's voice compelled him to tell the truth.

       “My area?” Sherlock started, his voice breathless and barely loud enough to be heard. John nods slightly, his eyes begging Sherlock to finish the sentence. Sherlock's head was spinning, it almost made him sick to his stomach. He noticed his vision blur slightly around the edges. Tears, he could feel the hotness behind his face and the stinging in his eyes. God, he must look ridiculous. He finally tore his gaze up from the ground, daring a glance at the object of his affection. Looking at John, his John, his loving, caring, wonderful John standing there in front of him with a terribly endearing look of concern and bewilderment on his face, made his lips slide up in a slow smile.

      “You. It's always you.” Sherlock would have hated the hopeful sound and mushy nature of his words had they not caused the most beautiful smile to bloom across John's face. John pulled him into an embrace, his free hand moving up to tangle itself in his curls. Sherlock let his body slump against him, relief flooding through him. He enclosed his arms tightly around him, burying his head in the crook of John's neck. Neither knew how long they had been standing there intertwined with each other when John pulled slightly away. Sherlock instantly straightened, frightened that he had done something wrong. His trepidation was immediately assuaged when he saw the impossibly fond expression on John's face.

“I was so jealous, you know. Of her.”

      “Obviously.” Sherlock lightly chided, a small laugh escaping from him. John chuckled. His ears were red from the cold, his hair disheveled from the wind, his eyes bright with unmistakable happiness. Sherlock was consumed with the want to kiss him, shocked by how rapidly the need overcame his every sense. John detected Sherlock staring intently at his mouth, laughed contently, and grabbed him by the lapel of his jacket. “Come here, you git” he pulls the tall detective closer and pushes their lips together. Sherlock was a sloppy kisser, John quickly noticed, but it was so indescribably charming that he didn't care. Sherlock brought a hand up to cup John's face, warmth flooding his chest. They both broke out in stupid grins, leaning their foreheads together.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered. “Always have.”

“Obviously.” John imitated teasingly, twirling one of Sherlock's curls around his finger. “I love you too, Sherlock.”

      Hours later, John and Sherlock lay entangled on the couch. John was fast asleep, his head resting on Sherlock's torso. Sherlock had been careful to be as still as possible, not wanting to disturb John's much-needed rest. He was absolutely overjoyed to just be laying there with him, feeling his chest rise and fall against him, even to see the small drip of drool slide from his mouth and onto his own shirt. Sherlock couldn't wait to wake him up with a kiss when the sun rises, couldn't wait to pester him about his snoring and tell him again and again how much he loved him. He had been replaying the events of the night over and over in his mind, grinning every time he thought of how pleased John had been to hear the words he had been terrified to say for so long, how John had held him tightly, how John had kissed him softly. How thankful he was to Irene, for being the first falling domino that started this wonderful chain reaction. He pulls out his phone, deft fingers typing out the short message.

_I finally told him. -SH_

Her response was announced by the overtly sexual tone he had never bothered to change. _Well done. Congratulations, Sherlock. -Irene_

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! So this is my very first fanfiction and I hope it wasn't absolutely terrible. I love these boys with all my heart and really enjoyed writing them. I hope my timeline isn't too confusing because it's very very wrong. This is set one year after A Scandal in Belgravia but that would have been after Sherlock's jump in the show so uhhh...ignore that lol. Just pretend he never had to jump because their love was so strong it made Moriarty explode or something idk.
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on tumblr!


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